“She really does look lovely. And I’d stopped noticing,” Victor thought to himself.
The morning was as chaotic as ever. Vicky had made breakfast and woken little Veronica. Her husband had commandeered the bathroom, so she’d had to wash their daughter at the kitchen sink. A careless swipe with the towel sent a cup crashing to the floor. At the noise, her husband came running. Vicky handed Veronica over and bent to gather the shards.
“That’s it, I think.” She rushed to get dressed.
“Gotta dash—you take Vera to nursery. Big day today,” she called from the hallway, tugging up the zip on her boots. “I’m presenting. If it goes well, they’ll put me in charge of the project—money, experience, references, the works.”
She threw on her coat, gave herself one last critical glance in the mirror, snatched up her handbag, and bolted. Victor didn’t even have time to protest.
He finished his sandwich and coffee while Veronica watched him expectantly.
“You want some?”
His daughter nodded.
“No, you’ll skip breakfast at nursery if I let you.”
At the mention of porridge, Veronica wrinkled her nose.
“Plenty of things I don’t like either. Like your mum rushing off every morning. Doubt that’ll change.” He dumped his empty mug in the sink.
He wrestled Veronica into her tights, which twisted stubbornly, then wasted minutes hunting for her mittens—eventually finding them warming on the kitchen radiator. Flushed and dishevelled, they finally stepped out. Victor scooped her up and jogged down the stairs.
He handed Veronica over at nursery, but the nursery teacher started explaining something.
“Sorry, running late,” he cut in, practically fleeing the cloakroom in shame.
Only in the car did he breathe freely. He took a moment to recover from the morning’s chaos, then drove to work.
The whole way, he stewed over how much simpler life had been when Vicky stayed home. He’d left for work in peace, returned to a tidy flat smelling of dinner—no stress. Now, everything was a mad dash. No, this couldn’t go on.
Plenty of women would kill to be in her place—home, comfortable. But she needed independence, a career. Why even marry if that was her priority? Should’ve stuck to climbing the ladder. He’d talk her out of this tonight. They didn’t need the money, did they? The thought lifted his mood.
Work distracted him from the morning’s mess. By afternoon, a text from Vicky said she’d be late and asked him to collect Vera.
Great. There went his plans for a quiet pint with the lads. Rare enough as it was. His mood plummeted.
That evening, as Victor fried potatoes, Vicky came home glowing, still in her coat as she breezed into the kitchen.
“You’ll never guess—my presentation knocked them dead. They put me in charge! Congratulate me.” She raised onto her toes, offering her cheek. He pecked it.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” She caught his sullen expression.
“Thrilled. Fantastic! My wife’s climbing the corporate ladder. No time for her family now. Just brilliant,” he shot back, dripping sarcasm.
“What’s got into you? Jealous I’m out there succeeding while you’re stuck as some middle manager?”
“Jealous? You barely see Vera except on weekends. Soon she won’t recognise you. What, my salary not enough?”
“Don’t shout. This isn’t about her—it’s about you. Yes, I’ll earn more. And that galls you. Why can’t you see? I want to do what I love, not rot at home. I want to look good—like when you fell for me. Or did you forget?”
Victor faltered. She wasn’t wrong.
“That was then. Now we have a daughter. She needs her mother,” he countered.
“She needs her father too. Men love dumping everything on women, then blaming them when parenting goes sideways. Step up,” Vicky fired back.
The argument escalated. Neither yielded. They went to bed angry, facing opposite walls—until, in sleep, Vicky’s hand drifted to his chest. He covered it gently with his own. Asleep, they still loved each other.
Next morning, Victor rose early, hoping to slip out first. But Vicky was already making breakfast, waking Veronica. He sighed and headed to shave. The chaos repeated: coffee spilled, Veronica tangled in her tights, and Vicky, dressed, poised at the door.
Victor shouted that he couldn’t collect Vera today—but the front door slammed in reply.
“Damn it!” He hurled his shirt onto the bed.
This wasn’t the family he’d imagined. His mother had stayed home—cooked, waited for his father, helped with homework. No fights. Why couldn’t they have that?
At work, Margot cornered him. Once, they’d had a brief, fiery affair—before Vicky. In fact, Vicky was why he’d ended it.
“What’s with you lately?”
“What?” He spooned instant coffee into a mug.
“All ruffled and miserable. Domestic bliss not what you imagined?”
“We’re fine. Just… adjusting to Vicky working.” He poured boiling water, meeting Margot’s gaze.
Her lips, slick with red gloss, curved knowingly. She looked devastating—straight off a magazine cover.
“You’re always so busy. Need help?”
“Like what?”
“I could fetch your daughter from nursery. Keep her at mine till you’re free. Been ages since you visited.” She leaned closer, her eyes promising paradise. “I’m not as difficult as your wife.” Her fingers trailed toward his collar.
Victor caught her wrist. The image of Veronica telling Vicky, “Auntie Margot picked me up…” flashed in his mind.
“Don’t. We’re done. I’ve got work.” Coffee in hand, he walked out.
That evening, Vicky was late again. They didn’t argue—just stewed in silence. She knew exactly why he was angry, where this road led. She didn’t want to lose him. But she loved her job. That night, she tried to hold him. He turned away.
Lungs aching, she lay awake, weighing options. Quitting wasn’t an option—not when she was excelling. Spending years at home till Vera was older? By then, her role would be gone.
But Victor wasn’t wrong. Weekends vanished into her laptop. They hadn’t gone anywhere in ages. More money meant proper holidays, no scrounging.
Victor was handsome. At work, women circled like vultures—Margot, for one. He’d been upfront about his past when they got together, to avoid surprises.
*No. Others manage. Why can’t I? No more late nights. Morning meetings only. And why should I do everything? We’re a team, aren’t we?* Resolved, she nestled into the pillow.
Next day, Vicky was on TV, touted as a rising star. Asked how she balanced work and family while looking so polished, she smiled. “I’ve a brilliant husband who supports me.”
“She really does look lovely. And I’d stopped noticing,” Victor thought.
“Saw your missus on telly,” Margot purred later in the break room.
“Enough,” he said, watching malice flicker in her kohl-rimmed eyes before vanishing beneath a saccharine smile.
“Oh? She told the nation what a doting husband you are. Men like you shouldn’t belong to one woman.”
“Find someone else—Alex has been pining for you.” He left, abandoning his coffee.
Victor’s mother called after seeing the segment.
“So you’re cooking and cleaning now? Going hungry, I bet. And poor Vera—a wife should be home, tending to her family. I never—”
“Stay out of it, Mum. I remember you ‘staying home.’ At school, when they asked what you did, I had no answer. I was ashamed—my mum was *nobody*. Just cooked and waited. Dad strayed because he had too much free time. Think I didn’t know his ‘business trips’?”
“You never said—”
“And if I had? You only hear yourself. You thought martyring yourself earned love. Dad didn’t care—he wanted someone vibrant. And I know you confronted his mistress.”
“Do as you like. It’s your life.” His mother sniffled.
“Mum… I’m sorry. I love you. Come visit. Or we’ll pop round for pancakes—nobody makes them like you. Teach Vicky. I love her, too. No one else.”
Next day, Vicky didn’t ask him to collect Vera. Assuming she’d forgotten, he swung by nursery. The teacher beamed. “Mum already fetched her.”
*Really?* Heart lighter, he sped home.
“You’re back early! Project axed? Fired?” he teased as he walked in.
“No. Just trying to reset. Though I’m itching to call and check in,” she admitted.
“TheyThey sat down to dinner together, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like home again.
